


Jean

by MykEsprit



Series: Dramione Delectables [15]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, F/M, Not exactly HEA, SCIFI AU, Tragedy, but not NOT an HEA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 01:42:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15939167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MykEsprit/pseuds/MykEsprit
Summary: Hermione woke up from a simulation--a fantasy world filled with magic and heroes. But it wasn't until she returned to reality that strange things began to happen.





	Jean

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling.
> 
> Thanks to the fest mods for putting this event together. Beta love to Orcl777.
> 
> Remix: Rick and Morty (TV). Rick is a mad scientist, and Morty is his lovable sidekick (who often becomes his unwitting experiment).

Hermione blinked, and it was gone. Hogwarts. Harry Potter. Ron Weasley. Voldemort. The war. Her vine wand.

As she floated back to consciousness, that fantasy world sifted through her mind like sand through a sieve. Her hand reached out in the empty space to catch the grains as they fell.

“Hermione?”

Her vision swam; she rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.

“It’s all right,” the strange woman in a white coat said. “You’re just coming out of the simulation.”

She opened her mouth to respond. The tight muscles in her throat groaned from disuse.

“It’s normal to be a little disoriented. Your mind  _and_  your body were exposed to a lot of stimuli while you were under,” the gentle voice explained.

Hands reached underneath her shoulder blades and propped her up. Gradually, her mind cleared as she gazed at her surroundings. The stark, sterile walls were bare; they gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights. White cabinets were suspended over plain, black countertops where three monitors glowed—two screens flashed numbers and letters and lines, while the third one displayed a scanned image of a brain.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably on the thin cushions of the exam table. “Hogwarts—” she croaked. “Not real?”

The woman in the white coat shook her head. “No,” she said with a quiet laugh. “You’ve been in the ‘Hogwarts’ simulation. You volunteered for it, remember?”

“Right,” Hermione whispered. She shook her head. “How—how long was I out?”

The woman smiled. “Most of the day.” She pulled up a tablet from the counter, unlocking the screen with a few taps of her finger. “I’ll just do a quick physical examination and log your report. Then, you can go on to see the boss, okay?” The woman winked. “I’m sure he’s looking forward to what you have to say about his new tech.”

“Sure.” Hermione shook her head as her mind grasped for information. “ _Erm_ , Veronica, right? Dr. Mayes?” She chuckled as she cradled her head. “I’m so sorry! I’m just…I don’t know why I’m having so much trouble remembering!” The penlight’s beam flicked over her field of vision.

Dr. Mayes laughed softly. “Don’t worry! It’s absolutely normal for subjects to come out of _any_ simulation with a bit of disorientation! For you, in particular, we expected it—this was the longest anyone’s been under! Dr. Malfoy wasn’t too happy, but you _did_ insist—”

“Malfoy?”

The doctor looked at her with a curious glint in her eye. “Yes,” she said carefully. “You remember Dr. Malfoy, don’t you?”

“Dr. Malfoy.” As her mouth formed the words, it conjured a memory—a man with angular features and pale hair waiting for her at the end of a long, petal-strewn aisle. Hermione laughed with embarrassment. “Of course. Draco. My husband.”

“Yes,” Dr. Mayes said as she resumed the physical exam. “You got so excited about his new ‘Hogwarts’ simulation that you _demanded_ on being the first one to try it out! He’s waiting for you in his office now.”

“Oh,” Hermione murmured. Visions of a castle and magic and two young men were quickly fading. Her heart squeezed at the loss, though her more pragmatic brain reminded her they were nothing more than vivid dreams. Her husband, however, was very real and was likely sitting on pins and needles waiting for her. “Oh, good. I want to see him.”

* * *

Her husband leaned against the edge of the desk, his hands stuffed inside the pockets of a white laboratory coat. “How do you feel?” Draco asked as she stepped inside his office.

“Good.” Her hand flew up to her forehead. “Erm, still a little disoriented, to be honest. But good.”

He waved her over to a seat directly in front of him; she complied.

“Any headaches? Dizziness?”

She shook her head. “Right as rain.”

His eyebrows knit together as he pressed further. “What about your muscles—do you feel any weakness? Fatigue?”

A frown settled over her lips. “I went over this with the lab tech  _and_  the physician,” she said. “I’m  _fine_.”

Draco crossed his arms; his eyes hardened with an obstinate gleam. “Any memory lapses?”

Hermione sighed. “I don’t _think_ so. I mean,”—a chuckle escaped her lips—"that simulation was really  _something_. It all felt so real—preposterous as that scenario was, what with magic and heroes and  _dragons_! Even now, I’m having difficulty separating the sim from reality—like waking up from a dream.” She got to her feet and closed the distance between them. “You’ve really struck gold with this technology, Draco! Simulations as real as what I just experienced? Think of the applications!” She grabbed his hands. “Your sims can change life as we know it!”

Draco glanced at their clasped hands. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and his features screwed into a grimace. His hands ran up her smooth, bare forearms, then over her sleeves and shoulders, settling gently at the sides of her neck. Tenderly, he caressed her cheeks with his thumbs. “I’m just happy to know it  _worked_ ,” he said roughly.

* * *

Draco opened the front door and let her into the spacious living room. “Scorpius is here,” he said. “He, uh, wanted to visit home for the night. I went to pick him up while you were in the sim. I’m taking him back to his boarding school tomorrow.”

With a nod, she bounded up the stairs, eager to see her little boy. Though not so little anymore—he’d be eleven next year.

As she reached the top landing, she caught sight of him standing just inside a darkened bedroom. He was a carbon copy of his father; the only thing he inherited from her was the slight curl of his locks. Everything else—the platinum hair, the patrician nose, the curve of his ears—came from Draco.

Even the hard glare of those grey eyes, which were now pointed at Hermione.

“Scorp?” she asked, coming to a stop halfway down the hall. “Something wrong?”

As she took a step closer, his bedroom door squeaked shut. The sharp click of the lock echoed down the wide hallway.

Hermione approached cautiously. She knocked. “Scorpius? What’s wrong, love?”

Her son stayed obdurately silent.

“Is it something to do with school?” When no sound came from the other side of the door, she prodded. “Are you angry at me about something? I don't know what’s wrong unless you  _talk_  to me.” She counted to twenty; still, he was unresponsive. “All right,” she said, a wave of defeat washing over her fatigued mind. “I’ll, _erm_ , I’ll be here when you want to talk.”

Dejectedly, she shuffled down the stairs. She found Draco in the study hunched over his desk.

“Scorpius won’t talk to me.” Hermione pouted as she wrapped her arms around his torso. “Has he been in a bad mood all day?”

“He’s been in a bad mood for years,” Draco joked, his laugh stiff and awkward. He unlatched her arms from his body and turned around. “He’s probably just tired from studying—he has exams coming up.” His eyes burrowed into hers, probing and evaluating. “You should get some sleep, too. Simulations take a lot of energy out of a person.”

Hermione nodded. “Good idea," she said, leaning in for a kiss.

He turned his chin up, planting a kiss on her forehead. “Have a good night.” Then, he turned back around to shuffle through the stacks of papers on his desk.

Perplexed by his odd behavior, she made her way slowly to the door. “Are you coming to bed?” she asked.

“In a bit.” Briefly, he glanced up and gave her a taut smile before returning his anxious gaze over his work.

As Hermione headed up to their bedroom, she shook her head. One Draco Malfoy was a handful; with their son—Draco’s veritable clone—added to the mix, she prayed to God she would have the patience to handle both their dramatic turns.

* * *

The drive to Scorpius’ boarding school was morose. Between her son’s stony demeanor and her husband’s nervous tapping on the steering wheel, Hermione was at her wit’s end.

She growled in frustration.

“What’s wrong?” asked Draco.

“Nothing.” It was a word that perfectly described the rest of their trip.

Nothing was said for the rest of the forty-minute drive.

When she got out to hug her son goodbye, she got nothing in return—not an embrace, not a kiss on the cheek. Scorpius didn’t even glance at her; he merely collected his luggage from the boot of the car and strode into the stone building.

“What did I do?” she asked, unable to keep the melancholy from seeping into her tone.

Draco wrapped an arm around her shoulders, squeezing briefly before ushering her back to the car. “Not your fault,” he said. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Boys, you know how they get—moody and generally unpleasant to be around.”

“Hmm.” Hermione swatted his arm playfully. “Don’t I know it? You were  _such_  a nightmare when you were younger.”

“You learned to love me,” Draco winked as he settled into the driver’s side.

“And it was a hard lesson!”

The banter was light as they drove back to London. He spoke of the latest goings-on at the lab; she recounted the last book she had read.

“Oh!” Hermione cried as she noticed a bookstore ahead. “There’s a book I’ve been wanting to pick up. Will you pull over? I’ll just pop into that shop and see if they have it.”

As he glanced at the storefront, Draco’s face paled. “Why don’t we just go to the shop closer to our house?” he suggested, his voice tight.

“Nonsense! There’s a perfectly good bookstore right here.” She popped out her seatbelt and laid her fingers on the door handle. “I’ll be quick.”

His features became a battleground for his reactions—his eyebrows furrowed and relaxed; his nostrils flared; the corners of his lips twitched. But when she smiled at him with wordless encouragement, his face settled into uneasy acquiescence. He parked the car at the curb. “All right,” he muttered. His eyes darted around suspiciously. “Just hurry, please.” As she slipped out the door, he grabbed her sleeve. “In and out of the bookstore, okay?  _Don’t_  go wandering off.”

She nodded and hustled into the store. It only took a few minutes to find the copy of the book she wanted.

As she exited the shop with her purchase, a voice called out, “Hermione?”

A stout man with apple cheeks ambled out of a neglected pub—‘The Leaky Cauldron’ hung on a post above its door, the letters nearly indiscernible through the grime. The man approached her, confusion written on his face. “Hermione—” he whispered in awe. “It  _can’t_  be.”

“I’m sorry,” she stammered as she took a step back. “I—I don’t know you—”

A hand clamped around her elbow; Draco dragged her back to the car, his face a mask of pure rage. She stumbled inside. In two seconds, he was in the driver’s seat, and they peeled out of the curb.

“What the hell?” she yelped, fumbling with her seatbelt.

“I  _told_  you not to wander off!” His lips twisted into a sneer.

“I  _didn’t_!” Her seatbelt finally clicked in place, and she folded her arms across her chest. “That man called my attention. I think he knew me—”

“ _Impossible_ ,” he barked. His hard gaze focused on the street ahead.

With a huff, she sank into her seat.

The rest of the trip was spent in indignant silence.

 

* * *

 

They were sitting down at breakfast when the pounding at the front door startled her.

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Stay here,” he ordered quietly. His shoes clicked on the marble as he marched to the door.

Hermione followed him to the archway and hid behind a wall.

“ _Where is she?_ ” A gruff voice bellowed.

“How did you find us?” her husband hissed.

There was a scuffle and a thud as if something heavy fell against the wooden door.

“We know she’s here,” said another voice—more even and controlled, but still just as frustrated. “Seamus told us he saw her outside the Leaky Cauldron.”

At the sound of the familiar establishment, she stepped out from her hiding place. A handsome, bespectacled man and a tall, broad-shouldered redhead gaped as she approached.

“Hermione,” said the dark-haired one. He pushed past Draco, the other man at his heels. They both stopped several feet from her. “ _Oh, gods_ —”

At this proximity, the vivid colors of their eyes burrowed into the recesses of her mind. As they gawked, her gaze fell on the odd scar on the green-eyed man’s forehead. It slashed from his hairline to the angle of his eyebrow, branching along the way.

Like a bolt of lightning.

Her breaths came in short gasps.

“Malfoy.” The man with the scar turned to Draco, his face contorted. “ _What the hell have you done?_ ”

Draco’s grey eyes flickered to her. He parted his lips and uttered a word— _Stupefy_ —

And she fell through darkness.

* * *

_A tinkle of laughter._

_A clink of glasses._

_The feel of a warm hand on hers._

_Shouting—an uproar—_

_“MUBLOOD BITCH!”_

_A flash of green light._

* * *

 

She shot up with a gasp.

“Easy, easy,” Draco said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder as his weight shifted on the edge of the mattress.

“What—what happened?” Hermione shook her head. The room was dim; she glanced out the window. “What time is it?”

“It’s evening,” Draco replied. “You were out for most of the day. Hit your head on the floor when you passed out.”

She ran a hand over the back of her head. “I—I don’t feel a bump.”

“Good,” he said. “I had your doctor come and take a look at you right away. She said you’re going to be fine.”

“Oh.” She inhaled sharply as her memory flooded back. “Who  _were_  those men?”

His eyebrows furrowed. “Just some disgruntled people I recently fired from work. Don’t worry—I sent them away. Told them they’d get into a lot of trouble if they came here again.” His finger trailed down her cheek. “I’m sorry if they frightened you,” he murmured.

“No, I wasn’t scared,” Hermione said. “It was just—so strange. They looked at me as if—” She pictured their eyes—one pair of emerald green, and the other pair of sapphire blue. Both held the same muddled expression: confusion, fear, recognition—and  _revulsion_. “Draco—those men—they looked familiar—I think I  _know_  them—”

“You probably saw them around the lab whenever you came for a visit.” He held her hands.

Apprehension and anxiety wrinkled her forehead.

“Hey,” he said, his gaze flitting over her features. “You know, I’d never let them come near you again. I’ll never let  _any_  harm come to you this time. I promise.”

Hermione smiled at him gratefully. “I know.”

Draco leaned in, aiming to kiss her cheek—but she turned, and he caught her lips instead. She angled her head to give him better access and braced her hands on his biceps. His muscles stiffened under her touch.

She kissed his lips, which stayed motionless and frozen under hers. The taste of salt made her reel back. “What’s wrong?” Hermione gasped.

He wiped his tears with the heel of his palm. “Nothing.” He stood abruptly and pecked the top of her head. “The doctor said you should get as much sleep as you can. I’ll finish up some work downstairs so I don’t disturb you.” He hurried to the door; the hallway light washed in. “Good night, Hermione.”

“Good night,” she called after him as he shut the door, leaving her in the dark once again.

When she fell back asleep, she was undisturbed by dreams.

* * *

The house was quiet when she woke up. The clock on the nightstand informed her that it was mid-morning; Draco must have snuck out to work.

Hermione rolled out of bed and went on with her routine. Breakfast of toast and marmalade. A relaxing, hot shower. And then—

On her way down, she halted in the middle of the staircase—what  _did_  she do on the days that Draco was at work?

A frown tugged at her lips as she glanced into the living room. What a silly question—she tidied up, of course. It was a large house, and it usually took her hours to keep it neat.

She hunted for a duster, then rolled up her sleeves, starting with the mantle above the fireplace. It was lined with a handful of frames. A photo of her in her wedding dress was positioned in the center.

Hermione remembered the instant that photo was taken—it was the exact moment she saw him waiting for her at the end of the aisle. He was so breathtakingly handsome, she had clutched her skirt to keep from sprinting down to meet him.

She suppressed a giggle as she scanned the photo. Her hands had a death grip on the delicate chiffon skirt. Her gaze moved up from her hands to her bare arms—

The frame fell to the floor, and horror curdled in her stomach.

* * *

“What are you doing?” Draco’s eyes widened as he walked into the living room.

Photos were strewn over the plush, white carpet—the two of them laid out on a sunny beach, their limbs specked with sand; she and a younger Scorpius posed in front of a cabin, a mountain looming behind them; a solo picture of her lying on a picnic blanket with sunglasses over her eyes and a bright smile on her face.

Dozens and dozens of photos littered the floor. Albums labeled with Draco’s neat flourished handwriting were stacked on the side tables.

She had dug up their papers, too. Scorpius’ birth certificate, their marriage license, the deed for the house—they were lined up along the cream-colored couch.

On the coffee table, the screen of a silver laptop glowed as waning sunlight filtered through the heavy drapes.

Sitting at the corner with her arms wrapped around her legs, Hermione looked up. She opened her mouth to speak—to scream—to accuse him of  _what_ , she didn’t know—her mind reeled at the speed of light, and she couldn’t  _focus_ , she just knew he had done something wrong—something very  _bad_ —

Draco rushed to her side. “Hey, hey, it’s all right,” he murmured as he pulled her into an embrace. She hadn’t realized she was hyperventilating until she felt the constriction of his arms around her torso. His lips pressed against the crown of her head. “It’s all right. I’m here. You’re all right, Hermione.”

She fought to control her breathing. “No,” she whispered between gasps. “I’m not.”

His arms tightened around her. “What happened?”

“I’m not,” she croaked.

Alarm raised his voice. “What’s wrong, Hermione?”

“I’m  _not_ _Hermione_.”

Draco stiffened, his hold like a vice around her chest. She shoved him off and stood, her knees shaking as she fought for balance.

“You’re—no,” Draco stammered. He stayed on his knees, grey eyes glued to the carpet at her feet. His hands curled into fists. “You’re just having a dissociative episode—it’s a side effect of the simulation—”

“Stop!” Her fingers raked through her curls. “Stop  _lying to me_!”

His eyes snapped up. “Calm down, Hermione—”

She marched to the mantle, plucked the ornate silver frame, and tossed it at her husband. He caught it before it tumbled to the soft carpet.

“Tell me what that is,” she said, pointing to her image.

His tongue darted out to wet his dry lips. “It’s you on our wedding day,” he said, his tone hushed and reverent, like a priest entering hallowed ground. “In your wedding dress, right before the ceremony—”

“Not  _that_ ,” Hermione barked. “ _This_.” She pointed to her image’s arm, half-hidden by the voluminous skirt. “What does it say?”

Draco’s gaze fell on the puckered flesh. “Mudblood,” he whispered.

She pulled on the sleeve of her light sweater, exposing her left forearm. “And here?”

His eyes squeezed shut.

“How do you explain  _this_?” She rubbed her unmarked skin. “Why do I have a scar the length of my forearm in that photo, but not here?”

Draco turned his face away and sat back on his heels. His knuckles blanched as he clutched the silver frame against his chest.

“I looked through all these photos. The latest ones were taken years ago! So many albums filled with photos, and then—we suddenly stopped taking pictures?! Why?” Hermione took the phone out of her pocket. “I only have two contacts on my phone—you and Scorpius. I have no messages, no pictures.” She pointed to the laptop on the table. “When I searched for us online, nothing comes up. No social media accounts, no mentions of your company— _nothing_!” Her vision swam, and she sank to the floor, burying her face between her knees. “I’m in the simulation,” she whimpered. “This whole thing is fake, and I’m stuck in a goddamned simulation, and I can’t get out—”

There was a soft shuffle across the carpet; long fingers intertwined with hers.

“No, you’re not,” Draco said, his voice heavy with grief. “You’re real. I promise.”

“My son refuses to look at me. My husband cries when I kiss him. Characters from a simulation barge into my home and harass me.” She lifted her eyes, meeting his desolate gaze. “How can all this be  _real_?”

Gently, Draco pulled on her left hand and turned her wrist over. “You’re real,” he whispered, caressing the smooth skin of her forearm. “You’re just—not exactly  _you_.”

She dared not blink as he forced the words out.

“Four years ago,” he started, his eyes downcast, “we were at a state dinner. For the Ministry,”—he inhaled sharply—"the Ministry of  _Magic_.”

He then wove a horrible tale—

_Of how this woman, the youngest person to take the position of Minister for Magic, hosted delegates from across Europe._

_One of the large function rooms at the Ministry was transformed into an elegant hall, dotted with circular tables on which bejeweled ladies and dapper gentlemen dined. She sat at the head table. The French ambassador sat on her left, chatting about tariffs and global markets._

_On her right, Draco reached over and took her hand. As she turned her attention to him, he lifted her fingers up to his lips and planted a brief kiss. She gifted him with a smile, gentle and tender. It colored her cheeks a lovely rose and warmed her chocolate brown eyes._

_He was so enthralled by his wife’s smile that he didn’t notice the crescendo of commotion in the crowd—_

_Not until its source reached the edge of the dais in the form of a bedraggled man brandishing a wand._

_Not until Draco could see the whites of that man’s eyes. The hatred. The violence._

_Not until the man screeched, “Mudblood bitch!” and threw a spell at the young Minister’s heart._

_Green light flashed in his eyes, and his wife’s hand slipped out of his grasp._

A pall of silence hung over them.

Draco cleared his throat. “After you—you were  _gone_ ,” he croaked, “I couldn’t handle it. The reporters hammering about the assassination, the mourning masses—Potter and Weasleys and the whole bloody mess of them!” He squeezed her fingers. “I took Scorpius, and we left the Wizarding world for the Muggle one.”

He got up and walked to the fireplace. He braced a hand against the mantle. “A few months went by, and then one of Father’s old contacts showed up on the doorstep.” A wry smile formed on his lips. “A dodgy one, of course. A squib who made his money by smuggling things back and forth between Muggle and magical worlds. He’d heard about what happened—and offered a solution.” He sighed. “He knew a guy, who knew a guy, who knew a guy working on cloning technology.”

Blood froze in her veins.

“I met with him,” said Draco quietly. “He was decades ahead of the rest of the field—it helped that his work was unsanctioned and deeply unethical. But he produced phenomenal results, and between  _his_  methods and  _my_  magic and background in Advanced Theoretical Potions—well—”

“You were able to clone your wife,” she whispered. Dread gripped her heart and grappled and crushed and  _squeezed_ —

“I was able to get my wife  _back_!” He kneeled and placed his hands on her shoulders. “You’re not _just_ a genetic copy. Her personality, her mannerisms—I transferred all of it to  _you_.” His hands trembled. “The only thing I modified was your memory. I couldn’t take you back to the Wizarding world—they know you’re de— _gone,_ ”—he snarled—"and I never meant for you to find out!” He released her, clutching at the long fibers of the carpet. “I made it so you thought the magical aspects of your life—Hogwarts and Voldemort and the war—was just a simulation. Every other memory was painted over with Muggle attributes. It was the only way I could hide you in the Muggle world.”

Hermione rocked back and forth, planting her forehead against her knee. She rifled through her memories. Her wedding day. The day Scorpius was born. Her graduation from university.

Happy days, and all of it counterfeit. Almost-truths—for as she reached into the fissures of her mind, she sensed the wrongness of each scene. The removal of magic was like a long shadow across her memories—looming and omnipresent; but she couldn’t discern the body that cast it.

Draco reached over. “Hermione—”

She hissed. “ _Don’t touch me!_ ” Scrambling away, she used an armchair for support as she jumped to her feet. “Don’t you fucking touch me!”

“It’s going to be all right,” Draco said. “We’ll work through this together—you’re going to be  _fine_ —"

“ _How?!_  How am I going to be fine?! My entire  _existence_  is a  _lie_! It’s  _repulsive_!” Tears streamed down her cheeks; she wiped them away with the back of her hand. “I’m not  _Hermione_! I’m just a lab-grown woman walking around with your dead wife’s  _face_!”

He punched the ground with a heavy  _thud_  as he shot to his feet. “Don’t say that! What makes a person?” He stepped closer, narrowing the space between them. “Memories? Personality traits? What about feelings?” He reached out, his hands wrapping gently around her wrists. “When you think of Scorpius, doesn’t your heart fill with love and pride?” He closed the distance between them. “When I touch you like this,”—he cupped her cheek—"can you feel how much I love you?” He stopped a tear in its tracks, wiping it away with his square thumb.

“I do,” she said truthfully. “But, can’t you see, Draco? I’m  _not her_. Your wife—she’s  _dead_. She’s dead. All you did was make another person in her image, but the woman you loved? The one you married? The one who carried your child? I’m _not her_.” Hermione glanced down where his hand touched her wrist. “In my heart, I have so much love for you and Scorpius. But are they—these emotions, are they really  _mine_?” She pulled from his grasp; his hands fell limply at his side. “Or are they  _hers_? Her feelings, her memories, her thought process—all poured into  _this_  vessel. Where does she end, and I begin?” Her hands brushed through her hair, nails scratching her scalp. “Do  _I_  even exist without her?”

For several minutes, they stood in the middle of the living room. The air was so thick with regret and gloom and loss that it hurt to breathe. Photos of Hermione Granger—her face bright and youthful and full of joy—surrounded them.

With a shuddering sigh, she turned and collected her purse from the side table.

“Where are you going?” Draco rasped.

“I need to go. I need to  _think_. And I can’t do it with you around,” she said. “I can feel you practically  _willing_  me to be your Hermione.” She threw the strap over her shoulder as she marched to the door. “I need to figure out who I am—without you and the pressure of your expectations.” Her hand wrapped around the door handle.

“Are you coming back?” The whisper carried through the chasm between them.

“I don’t know.” She escaped outside. The heavy door slammed behind her as she ran down the steps and out into the street.

* * *

The next time she stood on that doorstep, snow blanketed the ground.

She thought about visiting Harry and Ron but decided against it, avoiding the magical world altogether. Her face was too recognizable, and the news of her—resurrection—too sensational. She would never be able to find herself if she headed deep into the shadow of Hermione’s legacy.

For several months, she wandered. She spent the rest of spring traveling up and down Great Britain. She stayed in cheap motels, finding odd jobs to fund her nomadic lifestyle. By summer, she crossed the Channel; she made it all the way to Lisbon. During the cool autumn season, she journeyed through the coastal cities before returning home.

She took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

An awful minute passed, in which she drowned in panic and anxiety. Then, the door creaked open.

Draco stood inside. His cheeks were more hollow since the last time she saw him; the bags under his eyes had a grey sheen. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Hi,” she said, offering him a small smile.

The corners of his lips twitched up. “Hi.”

They stared at each other in silence. She cleared her throat.

It startled him out of his reverie. “Would you like to come in?” he asked, opening the door wider.

Gingerly, she stepped inside.

A tall, fragrant Christmas tree dominated a corner of the living room. Round ornaments gleamed on its branches—reds and greens and silvers and golds. Gifts spilled out from underneath. There were trimmings on the mantle, as well. A large, red stocking marked ‘Scorpius’ was overstuffed with more gifts. Boughs of mistletoe hung from the archways.

“Pretty,” she remarked.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

She took off her hat and scarf. “Is Scorpius home?”

Draco nodded. “He’s upstairs wrapping gifts.”

“Okay.” She bit her lip.

He stepped forward, though his expression was guarded. “How are you?” he asked hesitantly.

“Good.” She took a careful step towards him. “You?”

He bobbed his head once. “Things are well.” A small grin formed on his lips. “We—uh—we’re expected at the Burrow for dinner.”

Her eyebrows inched up her forehead. “Really? That’s—wow, that’s great!”

Draco chuckled as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Yeah. I thought it would help Scorpius out if he had some familiar faces when he goes to Hogwarts next year. Even if it  _is_  a bunch of Weasley spawn—”

“Hey!” She tried to sound offended, but the smile on her face gave her away. “So…you’re going back to the Wizarding world?”

A smirk ghosted his lips. “Eventually.”

“Good.”

Draco moved a step closer. He took a deep breath. “Would you like to stay for tea?”

Relief made her shoulders sag. “Yes,” she breathed.

He started for the kitchen. Halting at the doorway, he turned around. “How—how do you take your tea?”

Her chest burst with happiness. “Milk and sugar, please,” she whispered.

Draco smiled. “Sure, Hermione—”

“ _Jean_ ,” she said. “I—I go by ‘Jean’ now.”

“Jean,” Draco amended. “I’ll put on the kettle. Make yourself at home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments/kudos are appreciated. 
> 
> Please check out all the other amazing fest entries!


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